


Peanut Butter and Bourbon

by rubygirl29



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:28:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil gets a Christmas Eve visit from Clint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peanut Butter and Bourbon

**Author's Note:**

> Fluff, fluff, fluff with a shot of angst and whiskey. Not Beta-ed. All errors are my own. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Marvel owns them, I own only my words.

Clint can't sleep. He's fresh out of a three week fucked up mission in Singapore and a week in medical. He's suffering from cracked ribs, insomnia and a painkiller hangover. His ribs hurt, but he doesn't want to take any more drugs. He knows that they aren't addictive, not like heroin or cocaine, but he dreads dependency. It's a weakness and he's fought _so_ hard not to be weak his entire life. 

Finally, when tossing and turning results in more pain than it's worth, he leaves his quarters and goes on the prowl, forsaking the air vents for more conventional routes. He knows where he's going. He could find it if he were blind, and even if he runs into anybody at this hour, it wouldn't be unusual for him to be seeking out his handler. 

The corridor where Coulson's office is located is deserted. The clerical staff is gone for the night, and the cleaning staff has finished. Clint can still smell the slightly acrid disinfectant solution they use on the floor. Most of the offices are dark, dimly lit by work lights. Only one shows a brighter strip of light under the door. Clint sighs in relief, and knocks softly before he opens the door a crack. "Sir?"

"Barton, I hope that's you, because if it isn't, there's a 9mm aimed at your head."

"Glad to see you, too, sir." Clint slips in sideways and Coulson locks his sidearm and puts it down. "That would have been kind of awkward, explaining away the body on the floor."

"I could plead lethal aggravation and no jury would convict. What are you doing out of Medical, Agent?"

"I was discharged, sir."

"Then you should be in bed." Coulson rubs the bridge of his nose and takes of his glasses. 

Clint thinks he looks fucking adorable, blinking in the light. He feels a little woozy. "Can I sit down, sir?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, sir." He sits on Coulson's couch. "I don't feel so good, sir." He doesn't think he's sick — just kind of cold and shaky. 

"When was the last time you had something to eat?" Coulson stands in front of him and holds out a bottle of water. He lays a cool hand on Clint's forehead. "You don't have a fever. That's good. Lie down and stay with me."

"Glad to stay with you, sir." He thinks that sounds vaguely inappropriate, but truly, he doesn't want to be alone. 

Coulson moves away and goes to his credenza. He takes out a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. Clint watches as he spreads a thick layer on the bread, smears some honey over it, and brings it over to Clint. "Eat it slowly."

Clint folds it in half and takes a bite. It's surprisingly good. He eats slowly, not wanting to finish it and have to get up and leave Coulson's office. He likes it here. It's comfortable and the dim lights are soothing, as is the gentle tapping of Coulson's keyboard. The light limns Coulson's features; he looks intent on his work, his forehead slightly furrowed with concentration, his eyes narrowed. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing the spare, corded muscles of his forearms. People forgot sometimes that Coulson is an active field agent; Clint never forgets. 

He finishes the peanut butter sandwich and the bottle of water. He feels better, but he still doesn't want to move. "What day is it?" he asks. 

"Christmas Eve."

"You're kidding." Clint starts counting back the days. Coulson isn't kidding. Somehow, between the heat of Singapore and his time in the infirmary, he's completely forgotten the holiday. He hasn't been outside and there are no windows in medical. He gets up and goes to the window. Sure enough, he can see Christmas lights and softly falling snow. 

"Why are you here?" he asks Phil.

"Because I won't be here tomorrow, and three teams came back from missions that needed to be recorded and analyzed." Phil sounds tired, dispirited.

"I thought that was Sitwell's job?"

"Sitwell missed last Christmas, and this year, he has Maria to introduce to his family. It seemed fair."

"You've got a family, too," Clint argues.

"I'll see them at New Years. Honestly, I'm fine with being here. What about you?"

Clint shrugs. "I'm okay with being here. Where am I gonna go?"

Phil sighs, shuts down his computer and shoves his chair back from his desk. "You're going to come home with me. I'm not leaving you here with a half-staffed medical floor. I'd come back after Christmas and find you passed out on my couch. If you're going to pass out on my couch, it will be at home where I can keep an eye on you."

Clint is so startled he blinks several times before he comes up with his standard snarky reply. "Boss, I didn't know you cared."

"Of course, I care about you. I care about all my assets."

"Sure. I'll be all right here." He sounds deflated, tired. 

"Here." Phil hands him a coat. One of _his_ coats that he must have left here. Coulson kept his coat? 

"You kept my coat?"

"If you're going to leave it here and then forget you did … Yes, I kept it for an occasion just like this."

"Thank you, sir."

Phil shrugs into his own coat and locks the office behind them. "Let's go."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Later, Clint finds himself on Phil's couch which is ten times more comfortable than the one in his office. He's wearing a pair of Phil's flannel sleep pants and a Captain America t-shirt, and he's got an atrocious, obviously hand-made, purple afghan wrapped around his shoulders. He can't remember when he's been this comfortable.

"Here." Phil offers him a glass with a deep amber liquid in it. Clint takes it and inhales. 

"Mmm. Only the best." He loves the smoky, sweet aroma of the bourbon Coulson drinks. "Peanut butter and bourbon. Interesting combination."

"Coulson's cure-all."

"Works for me," Clint takes a swallow of the bourbon and appreciates the burn all the way down to his stomach. He looks around Phil's neat, spare apartment. "You don't have a tree."

"I'm usually in Illinois at Christmas."

"I have a tree," Clint says softly. "I didn't get it out this year. I mean, it's not much, just a two foot tall, hardware store remainder with fiber optics and an awesome color wheel."

"Where do you keep it?"

"Storage locker at headquarters." Clint drinks some more bourbon. It makes him feel warm, relaxed, sleepy. He yawns. "Sorry, boss."

"I have a spare room with a very nice mattress." 

Clint finishes his bourbon and lets Coulson pull him to his feet. He shuffles his way towards the spare room, the purple afghan trailing off his shoulders. He leans against the door frame. "You know this afghan is awesomely ugly, right?"

"My aunt Clara made it for me when I moved to New York. She said she thought purple was my color."

Clint grins. "I like purple."

"So do I." He gives Clint an enigmatic smile. "Go to sleep, Barton."

"I never knew peanut butter and bourbon had such awesome healing powers. Thanks, boss."

"It's Christmas, Barton. I have a name."

"Goodnight, Coulson." He makes his way to the bed and faceplants into the pillow. He's asleep before Coulson pulls the blanket up over his shoulders. 

"Goodnight, Clint."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Clint wakes up to faint daylight. He turns his head. The digital clock says 7am. He's slept for more than eight hours and he feels … he feels warm and pain-free and relaxed. He doesn't want to get out of bed, and the apartment is quiet. Coulson must be sleeping in, too. Last night, he looked like he needed it. Clint closes his eyes and dozes again.

When he wakes again, he smells coffee brewing. He gets out of bed cautiously, waiting for his ribs to scream awake, but they don't. His head doesn't hurt, and the dulling effect of the drugs seems to have worn off finally. 

He roams out to the living room and stops in his tracks. His little tree is on a table in front of Coulson's fireplace, lit up and glittering with changing lights as the color wheel turns slowly. Coulson comes into the living room and nudges Clint's knuckles with a mug of coffee. Clint takes it and wonders if he drinks it if he'll wake up in the infirmary again. He takes a sip and nothing changes. "You did this?" he asks in wonderment.

Coulson blushes. "Neither one of us was going to have much of a holiday. I wanted to give you something and this was all I could think of at short notice."

"I didn't get you anything," Clint protests. He touches the tiny bow and arrows strung on the tree as an ornament.

"You're here. I'm not alone. And I have a tree." He smiles. "That's all I want for Christmas."

Clint can't help smiling. "All this from peanut butter and bourbon." He drinks his coffee. Coulson's shoulder is warm against his, and the tree shimmers with light. "Merry Christmas, Phil."

"Merry Christmas, Clint."

**The End**


End file.
